


we pull the bodies out of the lake

by Anovelle



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Am I about to write another Orpheus and Eurydice fusion? Yeah., Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Quentin Coldwater, Did you know nothing after mountain of ghosts is canon?, F/F, Fix-It, Ghosts, Like, M/M, Season/Series 04, and then I REALLY dug the Plum in the show, but like not really, fallout from Q and Eliot having lived an entire life together, remix of Quentin's death, remix of season five, season 5 rewrite, so I workshopped a separate Plum figure with a more similar personality to book Plum, tbh I've been workshopping a version of Plum similar to the one in my last fic, the Dark King? Who's he? My plot device now motherfuckers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anovelle/pseuds/Anovelle
Summary: Sometimes he just wants to pretend.It’s his face and eyes-Sometimes, the Monster will draw close, close enough that Quentin can’t see the snarl it pinches Eliot’s mouth into, and he can't help but pretend that it’s him. That it’s Eliot’s head on his shoulder. That it’s Eliot’s hands, passing him a plastic airplane. That it’s Eliot’s breath shuttering against his ear. Sometimes, he just wants to curl up, put his head to that chest that used to behisand listen to that heart beat at its ribs and pretend that it’s Eliot’s.And then the Monster blinks just a bit too fast, or talks just a bit too slow, or squeezes just a bit too tight, and the illusion shatters and it’s just heartbreak and shame like boiling water pouring into Quentin over and over and over again.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 15
Kudos: 46





	1. i'm battling monsters, i'm pulling you out of burning buildings

**Author's Note:**

> so basically this has been ruminating in my head and in the notes section of my phone for like a year so now I'm tossing it out into the void. This first chapter is kind of a prologue, but this is pretty much a season five rewrite because I'd like to fight the writers in a Denny's parking lot at 3 in the morning. fic and chapter titles both taken from Richard Siken poems, because I'm a shitty little bisexual.

Sometimes he just wants to pretend.

_It’s his face and eyes-_

Sometimes, the Monster will draw close, close enough that Quentin can’t see the snarl it pinches Eliot’s mouth into, and he can't help but pretend that it’s him. That it’s Eliot’s head on his shoulder. That it’s Eliot’s hands, passing him a plastic airplane. That it’s Eliot’s breath shuttering against his ear. Sometimes, he just wants to curl up, put his head to that chest that used to be _his_ and listen to that heart beat at its ribs and pretend that it’s Eliot’s.

And then the Monster blinks just a bit too fast, or talks just a bit too slow, or squeezes just a bit too tight, and the illusion shatters and it’s just heartbreak and shame like boiling water pouring into Quentin over and over and over again.

.

He keeps going back to _fifty years—who gets that proof of concept like that_ and _peaches and plums motherfucker,_ and the terrified, beseeching look in his eyes and the way his face screwed up in anguish as he begged Quentin to realize and the wonder-hope-awe that had kicked up a careful windstorm in Quentin's chest when he did and the smile that had bloomed across Eliot’s face when he said his name and for one fucking second it wasn't pretend. For one second Quentin had looked into the eyes of the man he loved and found him staring back.

.

The monster wraps Eliot’s gentle fingers around his throat, and Quentin decides then and there that this is over. No more games. No more kid gloves. No more tequila drunk feral things using the body of someone he loved as their personal fucking playground.

“I will abandon you,” he sticks it in where he knows it will hurt and some vindictive part of him that is all too aware that this is a monster wearing Eliot’s face laps greedily at the panic that flares in those eyes. And it calls him weak, but Quentin doesn't care, he doesn't care. He's made of iron and spitting sparks and he will have Eliot back or he will have nothing at-fucking-all.

I'm not here to play motherfucker.

The monster lets go.

“I’ll take better care of the meat suit,” it promises, begrudging. Quentin refuses to thank it.

.

It’s Julia that takes his hands, washing the dirt and grime away—Julia who says, “You love him.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else.

.

“Q, Q, Q,” he says his name like it means something, like a prayer. “Q, no, oh God please, _no—"_

Eliot’s hand is warm on his ruined chest and his breath is coming in rough puffs on Quentin’s cheek and his _eyes. His_ eye—so full and bright and alive. Quentin knows those eyes. He loves those eyes. He spent fifty years with those eyes and so he can’t help but smile when he looks into them and says, “Hey stranger.”

A tiny, broken laugh chokes its’ way out of Eliot’s throat.

“Hey yourself.”

And Quentin wants—he wants—

He wants to tuck Eliot into the space between his ribs and never let him go. He wants to pull that stubborn mouth to his own and kiss it until they’re both bruised. He wants to trace the lines his haggard cheeks and feel the pulse of Eliot’s heart beat against his fingers with the promise of _alive, alive, alive._

He doesn’t have time.

Instead he says, “You look like shit,” because he does—his face is sallow and his hair is a rat’s nest and he’s still wearing the Monster’s awful, tacky shirt.

“You’re one to talk,” he says.

And Quentin laughs. He laughs until it turns into a cough and Eliot has to press wet hands against his wet chest, trying keep whatever blood Quentin has left inside his body.

“Q, Jesus Christ, Q. Just-just hold on, alright?”

He leans down and presses his forehead to Quentin’s.

“Hold on,” he begs.

And it’s simple. It’s so remarkably simple. Because Quentin is dying. And if he’s dying...

“Hey,” he reaches up, tilting Eliot’s head back so he can look at him properly.

“Hey,” Eliot says back.

And Quentin only has to tilt his chin to catch Eliot’s lips in a sweet kiss.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice is yelling that this is probably wrong. That Eliot said _no,_ that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want Quentin. That he’s being selfish.

Yeah, well. He’s dying. He thinks he’s allowed.

But then—

Then Eliot’s hand is gripping the back of his neck like _that_ and he’s kissing Quentin back with a fervor and Quentin is—he’s—

He’s floating, he’s falling, he’s so fucking _high_ and for a moment it doesn’t even matter that he’s dying. It doesn’t even matter.

Eliot pulls back with a hitching sob. “Q—“

“Don’t,” Quentin says. He doesn’t have time for another rejection. “Just, please don’t. Just for a second—just pretend—“

“I do—“ Eliot presses it into his hair, his forehead, the crest of his cheek— “I _do._ Q, _baby—“_

It’s a lie. Quentin knows it’s a lie. But it’s a nice lie. Eliot is kind for telling it. And Quentin—Quentin wants to say it back. To tell Eliot the truth. He opens his mouth to do it and—

His mouth won’t open. He tries to grip Eliot’s arm, but his hands won’t move. It won’t—it _can’t—_

 _Oh,_ Quentin realizes. _Oh. I’m dying._

“Q?” He hears Eliot whisper from far away.Then again, louder, “ _Quentin?”_

 _It’s too late,_ he wants to say. But the darkness is there and warm and pooling in his lungs, stealing all the air.

“No no no no no,” Eliot shouts. “No— _fuck! Quentin!”_

_I’m sorry._

In a last ditch attempt he tries to hold onto it; the cold rain, the hard ground beneath him, to _Eliot—_ Eliot’s hands, holding him tight, Eliot’s warmth above and around him, Eliot’s voice, murmuring, “Please please please don’t leave me. Quentin—Q _please—“_

_El—_

and then Quentin is in an elevator, and the doors are opening with a ding, and Penny—their Penny, wearing a slick grey suit and drenched in slick grey pity—is standing on the other side.

“Hey,” he says. “Been awhile. Welcome to the Underworld.”


	2. the stone inside you still hasn't hit the bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cool,” Quentin nods, mostly because he doesn't know what else to say. He sort of wants to cave in on himself. God, when all this is over he’s just gonna sit, he really is. He’s just—gonna relax and chill the fuck out. Drink, like, Mai Thais and shit. Eliot’d always tried to get him into Mai Thais, used to shove them into his hand when they lounged in the backyard of the Cottage and wax poetic about them when they worked at the Mosaic, even though Quentin thought they were disgusting, and told him they were disgusting and—
> 
> Fuck.
> 
> Eliot.
> 
> Suddenly Quentin can’t breathe. Which, like, sure, he’s dead, he doesn’t have to, but he can’t fucking breathe and God, is this a fucking panic attack? It is. Fucking shit. He’s been dead for all of twenty fucking minutes and he’s having a goddamn panic attack. Honestly, fucking typical.
> 
> But Eliot—
> 
> “Fuck,” he pants.
> 
> —Eliot, with his scent and his warmth and those fucking eyes of his, devastating what was left of Quentin's soul. Eliot, holding him as he died and shit shit shit Quentin can't believe he did that to him, had forced Eliot to-to watch like that he—
> 
> Oh fuck, he can't believe he kissed him.
> 
> ...But Eliot had kissed him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from a Richard siken quote. Because of course.

As it turns out, Metro Cards are bullshit. Quentin’s just leads to a room with pale, pale grey walls, two big, cushy, grey armchairs, and a low, charcoal colored coffee table between them. There’s a metal door behind him, slightly ajar, like he’d pushed it open, even though he hadn’t, he _knows_ he hadn't. It’s not paradise or heaven or whatever 'moving on' is supposed to entail. It’s just more dull, municipal, Library bullshit. Quentin sort of wants to scream.

“Don’t do that.”

Quentin starts, whirls around.

The door is a bit more than ajar now. Standing in its frame is a Librarian. A very young, oddly familiar librarian, who’s rather unlike any librarian Quentin’s ever met. She’s wearing the standard grey trousers, but it’s paired with a loose, short-sleeved white shirt and no shoes, leaving her comfortably barefoot in what must be her office. Her mouth is free of red lipstick—free of any makeup, really, and her dark, corkscrew curls are held back only by her sticky-outy ears. She’s holding a clipboard, and she’s got the same warm, settled aura as the therapist Quentin had in high school, except that she’s a wiry-looking 20-something, not a 45 year old woman named Carol. The part of his brain (does he have a brain anymore?) that’s not scanning the room for threats (are there threats anymore?) clocks her at around 20, maybe 21. She would have been younger than Quentin when she died.

Shit.

“Sorry for the, uh, mind intrusion,” she taps gently at her temple. “Its just that shouting scares the Alexa.”

She gestures vaguely to the desk Quentin hadn’t gotten around to noticing yet and the Amazon Echo perched on its end. On its face is what seems to be a countdown clock, reading 108 days, 14 hours, 36 minutes and 17–no, 16–seconds. The whole mind reading thing phases him less than that. He's kind of running on empty right now.

“You have an—"

“Latest model. She’s actually not supposed to come out for almost another four months from where you are. I won her in a raffle.”

“Oh,” Quentin says dumbly.

“Yeah,” the librarian agrees. Then, “Would you like to sit?”

She’s smiling, easy and open, and something about that is disconcerting, like Quentin’s seen that smile before. Something about the way her cheeks dimple.

“Um, sure,” he mumbles.

“Great,” she reaches up to smooth her already tucked hair back behind her ear. Quentin unconsciously mimics the movement with what little hair he has left.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Oh! God, sorry, I thought Penny would have briefed you. I’m Fate.”

She says it like it's simple, obvious, like it doesn't send Quentin's mind reeling like a shitty tape recorder. “I’m sorry," He says, "you’re what?”

“Who, actually," she shrugs, a little sheepish. "Fate. I’m Fate. Like in Greek mythology?”

Quentin stares, a little blankly. Because—

“Yeah but that's three women.”

She shrugs, less sheepish. “I like to appear however will make you feel most comfortable. For some reason the Greeks really fucked with crabby old ladies.”

Quentin snorts, unbidden. She’s got a bit of Chicago varnished onto her accent, just enough so that when she says ‘fucked,’ it comes out more like ‘focked.’ Alice does that sometimes, when she gets really pissed.

“You’re most comfortable with honesty,” she continues. Quentin frowns.

“So…” he peers across the little white coffee table at her, at her buttony nose and tawny eyes. “That’s your...”

“This is my face,” she nods. “Same one since I first got here. No glamours or gimmicks.”

“Cool,” Quentin nods, mostly because he doesn't know what else to say. He sort of wants to cave in on himself. God, when all this is over he’s just gonna sit, he really is. He’s just—gonna relax and chill the fuck out. Drink, like, Mai Thais and shit. Eliot’d always tried to get him into Mai Thais, used to shove them into his hand when they lounged in the backyard of the Cottage and wax poetic about them when they worked at the Mosaic, even though Quentin thought they were _disgusting,_ and told him they were disgusting and—

Fuck.

_Eliot._

Suddenly Quentin can’t breathe. Which, like, sure, he’s dead, he doesn’t have to, but he _can’t fucking breathe_ and God, is this a fucking panic attack? It is. Fucking shit. He’s been dead for all of twenty fucking minutes and he’s having a goddamn panic attack. Honestly, fucking typical.

But Eliot—

 _“Fuck,”_ he pants.

—Eliot, with his scent and his warmth and those fucking eyes of his, devastating what was left of Quentin's soul. Eliot, holding him as he died and _shit shit shit_ Quentin can't believe he did that to him, had forced Eliot to-to _watch_ like that he—

Oh fuck, he can't believe he kissed him.

...But Eliot had kissed him back.

 _Shit,_ Eliot had kissed him back, had called him _baby_ like he used to, like it was breaking him apart, and _fuck_ what was Quentin supposed to do with that? What the fuck was he supposed to do?There's too much of it, too much of _Eliot_ pressing against his ribs and his head and his sternum—the way he'd looked at Quentin, like he was something precious, when Quentin had placed that crown on his head—the silk shirt he'd worn on Quentin and Arielle's wedding day—laying in their bed, years later, in the aftermath of everything and Quentin panicking because _Christ, El, I'm 35 and I have a ten year old,_ while Eliot had chuckled and shushed him and ran those deft fingers through Quentin's too-long hair—years later still, sitting in the Physical Kids cottage, pretending to be asleep on the couch while Eliot quoted fucking—Richard Siken, in his ear, trying to ease Quentin like he always fucking did, that smooth voice so sad when it said _you're going to die in your best friend's arms. And you play along because it's funny, because it's written down, you've memorized it, it's all you know—_ and that fucking line coming true, in a forest somewhere Quentin can't name, can't think to name, because he's too busy thinking about Eliot's piercing gaze and the way he'd sobbed when he called him _Q—You're going to die in your best friend's arms._

_In your—_

Then the Librarian is kneeling in front of him, bringing one of his hands to her fragile-looking sternum.

“—c’mon, Q, follow my breathing. Big breath in…and hold…and out. You’re doing great. Let’s do it again, okay? In…and hold…and all the way out. Fantastic. Let’s keep going…”

She keeps his hand to her chest until he can think clearly again, until the press of _Eliot_ isn't so overwhelming, until that frantic grey flash of _fuckshitruncan’t_ isn’t gripping so firmly at his throat.

“Good,” the Librarian— _Fate—_ runs a comforting hand up and down his shoulder. “That’s really good Quentin. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he nods. He might be lying. He's not sure. _Eliot._ “Thanks.”

Her mouth quirks up in that strange, familiar grin again. “Of course.”

Then she flops into her chair again, knees crossed. “So,” she says brightly, “you ready?”

Quentin’s still a little shaky, but he asks, “For what?”

Fate wrinkles her nose curiously. “What exactly _did_ Penny tell you?”

He tries to remember. It's hazy. Everything's kind of hazy, except—

_Eliot at a fire. Eliot with a peach—_

No. Game face on, Coldwater. Can't do this again.

“Um, he gave me a Metro Card, and, um, sent me through a door? He also did a, uh, weird therapy session," he says.

“Yeah, that’s sounds like him,” she mutters, wrinkling down at her clipboard as she sifts through the papers. “He was supposed to tell you where you were going, but whatever. I can take it from here.”

Quentin shifts uncomfortably. He has the strangest urge to sit on his hands, like a kid in the principle’s office. 

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m in the Good Place?” He asks. Fate snorts, and _God,_ where has Quentin heard that snort before? Nevermind. Doesn’t matter.

“No,” she’s saying. “Though I am going to Michael you _just_ a little. Going over your greatest hits and all that.”

Quentin’s surprise that she understood the reference is quickly eclipsed by that.

“Greatest hits?” He asks, dread gnawing like mites at his stomach.

“Yeah, your high points and such. The good things you did, the quests you went on. You lead the quest for magic, that was a big one.”

“I didn’t really lead it,” Quentin shakes his head. “It was more of a, you know, group effort. And besides, Eliot—“ fuckshitruncan’t _breathe—_ “Eliot’s, uh, the one who. Received the quest.”

“Says here that you were its driving force. That you were looking even before Eliot gave you a formal start. And you kept the book. Found, what is this, two of the seven keys? And were an essential part of the effort in finding three others. You were the one who wanted to stay at Blackspire. That sounds like a leader to me.”

Quentin can’t do much but shrug. The ground is suddenly very interesting. Wood paneling—nice.

“And you helped to defeat the Beast. And the Nameless.”

Quentin does look up at that one.

“Nameless?” He frowns. Fate rolls her eyes, “It’s what the gods call the Monster and his sister.”

“Oh.”

He feels very small all of a sudden. Fate must notice—she looks up, a crease falling between her eyebrows.

“We can stop if you want.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I’m—it’s fine.”

“Q,” she says, firm but gentle. It’s so much like how Eliot used to say it— _Eliot—_ that something inside of him just—crumbles.

“Yeah, can we stop?” He says. Fate nods, all good grace and understanding, and Quentin really just wants to not.

“The point is,” she says carefully, “you’re a hero. Hero class, actually, that’s what’s on your paperwork.”

“Not a hero,” Quentin mutters. “Half the time I was just cleaning up my own mess—“

“Not with the Beast,” she shakes her head. “Or the Nameless. Definitely not with Everett.”

“Yeah, well look where that got me?”

And for the first time since he died, Quentin is _angry._ Angry at Penny and his platitudes, at Margo and her refusal to let him rest, at _Eliot,_ for going behind his back and shooting the damn monster in the first place, at Everett, for his greed and his magic-hoarding and everything, at Fate, for just sitting there silently and letting him stew.

But mostly, he realizes, mostly he’s angry at himself. For not being fast enough, for forcing Eliot to watch him _bleed out,_ for being dead at all.

“Interesting,” Fate says.

Quentin looks up. She’s watching him with bright, fevered eyes, smart-kid-with-a-stupid-idea eyes. Quentin knows those, he’s seen them on Julia enough.

“So, if you _could_ go back, would you?”

Quentin blanches—he’d forgotten about the telepathic thing.

“Um—“ he starts.

“I mean, I totally get it if you weren’t thinking that far ahead, but like…would you?”

Quentin blinks. Would he?

Because yeah, being dead isn’t really a party, but isn’t he supposed to be, like, done? Time on Earth complete? Tape can't be rewound?

But if that's not the case...

Look, Quentin's not going to pretend he was, like, Johnny Stable for the last few months. He was reckless. He was tired. He maybe— _maybe—_ had a death wish, a small one, buried in the frantic, overwhelming slog of _save Eliot._ But then—

 _His_ eyes and _baby_ and _Eliot had kissed him back—_

It's probably not really fucking healthy that _that's_ what kicked something in his brain to start again.

But then he remembers Carol, and how she'd told him once, _Survival isn't always healthy. It isn't always perfect. It's the baseline. Survival is ground zero._

She'd said, _Surviving is more important than surviving perfectly._

_We work out way from there._

Quentin wants to work his way from there.

“Is that…I mean is that possible?” He asks. Cautious, of course, except for the hope flaring bright in his chest.

Fate tilts her head. “Not exactly?” She says. “I mean, I can’t send you back as a Real Boy, you know?”

Quentin can practically hear those capitals. He frowns.

“So…what, then?”

She purses her lips, her eyes shining with something _mischievous._

“You see, Quentin, the thing about gods and librarians and all of us is that we can’t just raise the dead. There has to be, like, a human element to it. A human petition, if you will. Someone has to undergo a trial, someone has to pay a price. It’s like…like applying to college, I guess. You don’t just get invited in. Which is bullshit, especially in your case, but I digress.”

He’s starting to feel twitchy. His leg is bouncing already, and Fate is talking in complicated circles.

“So _what then?”_ He repeats.

She smiles a sort of pressed edge, secretive smile, like she’s forcing the corners of her mouth down. It’s the kind of smile Eliot has when he’s about to tell a joke that no one else will really _get,_ not even Margo. Something so niche and astonishing that it could only make sense if you were _Eliot._ It feels important, somehow.

“So, what I _can_ do is put you in contact with an expert.”

She’s laughing behind the eyes now, Quentin can tell.

“What does that mean?” He asks.

“You’ll find out,” she says, all mystery and teeth. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

She scribbles something on her clipboard, and then yanks off what look like a pair of ticket stubs.

“Here are your passports,” she shoves them into his hands. “No matter what, _don’t lose them._ Sew them into your underpants if you have to, but they _have_ to stay on you at all times.”

“Passports?” Quentin says.

 _“Don’t lose them._ In fact—“

She snatches the papers back and produces a capsule on a leather cord from somewhere Quentin can’t see. The papers roll up tight and small with a simple tut. She stuffs them into the capsule and seals it, then stands, and ties the cord tight around Quentin’s neck.

“This stays on you at all times, you hear me?” She says meaningfully.

“But I have a—“

“Metrocard, I know. Keep that on you too if you’d like, but I’m willing to bet you won’t need it for a long while.”

Quentin tilts his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fate smiles that tucked under smile again. “Like I said, you’ll find out. Now, listen carefully. When you leave this office, there’s a staircase immediately to your right. Go up until you reach level _three,_ there’ll be a sign. Then, between levels three and four, there’s a door. There should be someone there. He’ll be able to see the passport, you won’t even have to open up the capsule. He’ll get you to the expert. Got it?”

“Stairs on the right, door between three and four, someone there will check my passport?”

Fate nods, “Exactly.”

“Okay," he's getting twitchier, and she's still not explaining anything, "but who is this expert? Where exactly are you sending me? Is this some kind of Underworld hazing or something—?”

“Quentin!” She cuts him off. “Just—trust me, alright?”

And see, the thing is, Quentin shouldn’t. He’s met enough gods and demigods and Librarians to know that they’re usually dicks. Self-interested and petty and mean, or too far gone down their one righteous rabbit holes to hear reason. But there’s something about this kid, with her bare feet and stuck-out ears and _Eliot_ smile, that’s just… _different._ He looks at her, and he just gets the sense that she’s not in it to fuck him over. That this _one_ person might just really want to help him to get what he wants.

So Quentin shuts his mouth, nods, and goes.

.

Penny’s sitting at his desk, halfway through a report, when a wiry pair of arms sling around his neck from behind, and a round chin makes a home of his shoulder.

"Busy?"

Penny gives his eyes a long-suffering roll, and tilts his head to rest against Polson’s temple.

“What do you want?” He says.

“Coldwater wasn’t briefed,” she says in lieu of a reply.

“So?”

“So I asked you to brief him.”

“No, you asked me to retrieve him.”

He can almost hear her frown. “Pretty sure I said brief over the phone.”

“Must’ve misheard you. The gps calling’s fucked again.”

Polson sighs in frustration. “Ugh. Shit, sorry about that. I’ll talk to Pat, see if he can do anything about it.”

“Sounds good.”

Penny’s known Polson for all of about eight months, as much as that means down in the Underworld. She’s an odd one. She works with all the big deals—Heracles, Perseus, Achilles, Shakespeare, Gandhi, fucking Stalin. Office rumor has it that she’d refused to meet Hitler at all, just sent her recommendation to Hades that he go straight to Tartarus, and that she’d punched Ronald Reagan in the nose after talking to him for about ten minutes.

They’d met the first time Penny was promoted. She’d stopped by his new, cushy office, her feet bare, already ranting about something she’d read in someone else’s book to someone that clearly wasn’t Penny.

“You’ll never guess what these dumbasses did this time, I swear. ‘Why the fuck not?’ I swear, I want to bang their heads together sometimes. Why is it that whenever I go to check up on them they’re always in the middle of the biggest drama in the multi—"

She stopped short when she saw him.

“You’re not Pat,” she said dumbly.

“No,” Penny’d replied. “I’m Penny. Who the hell are you?”

“Fate,” she replied, and when Penny blanched, amended, “I mean, I run the Fate department. I _am_ the Fate department, actually. Polson. Sorry. Everyone around here calls me Polson.”

She sprung forward, extending a nimble hand. Penny didn’t know what else to do but shake it.

“So you’re the new guy Cheryl told me about, huh? Sorry, this used to be Pat’s office, I was looking for him. But hey, as long as I’m here…”

She’d ended up staying for hours, running Penny through some basic departmental interactions, and then even longer, just to shoot the shit and compare notes. By the time she left, Penny had an invite to drinks with her and the mysterious Pat, and something like a friend.

So yeah, an odd one.

The old timers love her—dote on her like she’s their favorite grandkid, but some of the newer folks, the ones who’d only been in the Underworld for a thousand years or so, view her with a sort of suspicion.

“She never eats,” Penny’s heard one of them whisper. “Once I called her office, and when she answered, it sounded like she’d been sleeping.”

Which, okay, that’s weird. The great and shitty part about being dead is that you don’t need to sleep if you don’t want to. It won’t do anything, the same way not eating won’t really do anything, but it’s not encouraged in the Library.

Which, Penny calls bullshit, but alright.

But despite her oddities, Polson’s kind, and no bullshit, and she makes the corpse-eaters go all stiff and strange when she passes by, and that makes her alright in Penny’s book.

Polson slides around the desk, liquid and clumsy, and drops onto Penny’s couch. “So I’m heading to Elysium tomorrow,” she leans back, stretching her toes out until they touch the other armrest en pointe. “Pat’s coming with me. I was wondering if you wanted to come with? Benedict’s been asking about you.”

Penny shakes his head. “You just don’t want to be third-wheeling Pat and his boyfriend.”

“Husband. And obviously,” Polson smirks. “I’m pretty sure Achilles doesn’t even notice I’m there. Too busy undressing Pat with his eyes.”

“Stop going with him then.”

“Can’t. I have to be there so Pat can get in.”

Right. Because Polson’s gets special privileges as Hades’ personal liaison. Another reason some of the younger Librarians don’t like her much. If you’re speaking in technicalities, and Librarians, Penny’d learned, often are, Polson’s probably the most powerful person in the Underworld branch. She interacts pretty intimately with all the departments, except maybe the cart-pushing newbies. She’s the only one of them who can flit around the Underworld as she pleases, though mostly she sticks to one of her, Pat’s, and Penny’s offices, or the bar they frequent for after-work drinks. Once a week she’ll go into Elysium with Pat, and sometimes with Penny, for a little heroes tour—checking in and drinking wine with all the big shots she’d helped move on in the past. Because Polson worked with the _big shots._

So imagine Penny’s surprise when Polson’d called him this morning (whatever that meant here) and said, “I need you to send Quentin Coldwater my way after you retrieve him.” Though apparently she'd said ‘brief.’

Quentin Coldwater is many things to Penny—a former frenemy (though more friend now, he supposes, than enemy), his ex-roommate, the guy who’d laughed when Penny died but who also helped him when his hands were living in a box—but not someone Penny would call a _big shot._ In fairness, though, he’s competing with Hercules, and probably, like, Obama whenever he gets down here, but still.

“That’s too bad,” Penny says absently. He’s still looking over the file. “How’d it go, by the way? With Coldwater?

“Fine,” Polson shrugs. “Sent him on his way.”

“And where’s that?”

Polson’s the one that writes recommendations for certain people to be sent to certain places. He’s seen the one she wrote for sending Hitler to Tartarus. It had read, pretty simply, _It’s Hitler._

Worked like a charm.

“Upstairs,” she says, casual as anything.

Penny freezes.

“Upstairs?”

His throat is tight. Of course it's fucking tight, what the hell and fuck is she playing at?

“Upstairs,” she confirms, a little smugly.

Penny slowly spins about to look at her.

“Why the _fuck_ did you do that?”

“Oh relax,” she waves him off. “It’s fine.”

“Polson, we don’t send people _upstairs—"_

It's, like, rule number one. You come to the Underworld, you stay in the fucking Underworld. And Polson'd just—?

“He’s still dead, if that makes you feel any better—"

 _“That doesn’t matter!"_ He hisses. _"_ What if—shit, Pol, what if someone _sees_ him?”

And Polson—the heavy horse balls on her—laughs outright.

“Yeah, Pen,” she says, “kind of the point.”

Penny feels all the non-corporeal blood rush to his non-corporeal feet.

“What?” He says.

“Seriously,” Polson says, “don’t worry about it. It’s all part of the plan.”

And before Penny can demand to know _what fucking plan?_ Polson’s in front of him, smacking her palms down on his desk. “So,” she grins. “Elysium? Apparently there’s a new bar on Achilles’ block.”

Penny stares at her for a long moment, and sighs.

“You’re paying.”

He’s going to need _so_ many drinks.

.

The day is warm and sun-baked in that way that only New York in the dead of August can really manage, and Eliot is pretty sure he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown.

He’s been holed up in the penthouse for weeks now, after the hospital and Fillory and Margo and that fucking mountain and the king he’d nearly, shamefully grief banged. Not that Eliot disapproved of grief-banging. Just that it was probably a bad idea to get your rocks off with some woodland rando when the person you’re in love with is actually six feet below.

 _Fuck._ That shit-fucking mountain. That shit-fucking hike. Shit-fucking _Alice._ But no. That’s not fair. Alice isn’t shit-fucking, nor does she deserve to be. Just the shit-fucking mountain.

That _shit-fucking_ mountain.

It’s not enough that Eliot’s being gutted every second of every fucking day, but now there’s more? There’s—Quentin’s fucking voice, ricocheting around in his head like a goddamn bullet, carving him out like some perverse David, and then the Dark fucking King, and then talking with Alice— _Alice,_ of all people—about his motherfucking _feelings_. Just—handing them over for validation and review, hoping the one other person who’d had a chance at Quentin Coldwater’s heart wouldn’t flambé them until the skin was crispy, and still, still, always still, holding back.

Because God, God, _God,_ it’s supposed to get easier, right? You lose someone and it hurts and hurts and hurts, and then it’s supposed to get _fucking easier_. But every time Eliot thinks about _it_ there’s just this fucking— _flare,_ knife-bright and so hollow, scraping down false ribs 8 through fucking 12; grief and loss and so much fucking anger Eliot chokes on it. He wants to punch a wall, or just _scream—_ just work his useless fucking lungs until they’re raw and bloody. He wants to claw at the damn earth, pound his fists, _beg_ someone to just _please, please, just give him back please give him back I’ll do anything anything you want just fucking give him back to me I can’t I can’t I fucking won’t damnit and damnit and fuck you and fuck fuck fuck I fucking can’t just please give him back give him back give him_ back—

He doesn’t do any of that, because it won’t change anything. He drinks instead. That doesn’t change anything either, except that if he drinks enough, he can sleep without Quentin’s face painting itself bloody across the backs of his eyelids.

 _Maybe that’s why this so hard,_ he thinks at the numb ceiling. Because Eliot was there when it happened—hell, Eliot is the one who did it. _The Monster,_ Margo and Julia and even fucking Alice had insisted, up on that mountain, but whatever. It’s not like it matters. Eliot. The Monster. What’s the difference?

 _None,_ Eliot knows and knows and drinks and knows. Peach schnapps tastes like nothing, but it still makes him cry something silly and awful, so he’s drinking vodka and _remembering_ every horrid fucking thing _it_ had done with his body. From kidnapping Quentin to killing the ice cream man to breaking Quentin’s arm to murdering Iris to putting his hands to Quentin’s throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to forcing the psychic to read his mind to forcing Quentin to watch him discard the body to chopping off a nymph’s head to—to—to—

Quentin. Always Quentin. But this time, Quentin barreling towards him in a forest, ax in hand, alone, alone, _why was he fucking alone?_ Barreling towards him, ignoring the hand that was raised, poised to kill, and then—

Quentin, falling forward, his chest slashed and bloody and that _damn ax_ still in his hands—the way the Monster had caught him with Eliot’s arms and how Quentin—brilliant fucking Quentin—had nicked his shoulder through that terrible cardigan on his way to the ground, and then it was just Eliot.

And then it was just Eliot.

Margo had found them, Eliot clutching Q’s— _Q,_ clutching Q to his chest and screaming screaming screaming himself hoarse, sallow and pale and barely alive, casting like mad to just— _bring him back come on Q come on baby don’t do this please look at me sweetheart please come back to me please and please and please—_ and Margo had sunk to her knees, eyes too big and too shiny and watched. Watched Eliot try and watched him stop, watched him until all that yelling fell into hushed whispers of _please I love you don’t go,_ pressed into Quentin’s cooling neck. And then she’d held him. She held him when Penny came back, when Julia and Alice saw Q’s— _Q,_ when they saw Q, when Julia sobbed and collapsed into Penny, when Kady took Alice’s hand. She held him as she reached forward and closed Quentin’s eyes.

Eliot rolls over in the bed and tries not to throw up.

She’d kept holding him, too, all through the funeral and the bonfire and for that first month in Fillory when he’d stayed above it all by remaining pretty horribly drunk and casually suicidal, kept holding him until he forcer her to let go.

He doesn’t like to think about it, about any of it, so usually he tries not to think at all, but sometimes he dreams. It’s usually the same thing—the montage of hurting everyone, but mostly Quentin—but sometimes he dreams of _it._

 _It,_ being that Quentin had kissed him before he died. Quentin had asked him to pretend something before he died. Pretend what—that he would be alright? No. Eliot doesn’t like himself enough to put any effort into believing that. Doesn't like himself enough to try and convince himself that Quentin wasn't asking Eliot to pretend he loved him, even though Eliot did, he did, he _does._

_Fuck._

It’s so stupid, so fucking stupid, but the tiniest part of Eliot wants Quentin back so he can ask, _what did you mean? You kissed me and then you died and you and Alice were together but you kissed me and then you died and what does that mean, Q?_

The rest of him just wants Quentin _back._

Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit on the fan, shit for bricks, shit.

He’s tired. He’s always tired, but this is extra, the razor edge of sleep crawling through the quagmire of his brain. Errantly, he hopes that he’s too boozed to dream tonight.

It’s only when he’s about to drop off that he hears it again.

_Eliot. Hey, Eliot—_

But Eliot’s already gone.

.

Purchas met him at the farmer’s market.

Well— _met_ is the wrong word for it. Because ‘met’ implies that they’d bumped into each other as they reached for the last bag of green grapes, and then argued over who should get them. ‘Met’ implies they exchanged phone numbers and maybe got coffee. Perhaps he was a friend of her professor or of another friend. ‘Met’ implies that there were additional meetings after the first one. That a friendship began to grow.

No. They never really _met._

Purchas _found_ him at the farmer’s market. Found is better for several reasons. First, it does not imply any sort of reciprocity on his end, because gods know there wasn’t any. And it’s a better excuse for why Purchas decided to take him home.

Not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.

But _found_ is a better word for it, for what really happened.

Because what really happened was that Purchas was, in fact, hunting for green grapes, when all of a sudden a man (boy. Man-boy. Boyish man. Young, alright, he’s young—) appeared in front of her without so much as a whisper for warning, and sent her and her grapes flying.

She had to get new grapes.

But that was besides the point. The _point_ was that she did not meet Quentin Coldwater. She found him.

It goes like this.

Purchas and grapes and blah blah blah, and then—

_Boom._

Like something out of those horror films that Holly’d loved so much, there’s a young man standing before her, pale, shaky, and a little bit translucent, and Purchas is on the ground.

“Are you kidding me—thanks, man. No need to help or anything.”

There isn’t. She’s the one that ran into him—well, not ran into, not quite. She was the one that spun around too fast and got a metaphorical kick in the teeth from the fact of someone standing too close to her.

The guy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try, even, to open his mouth to. He just watches her with sad, dark, _stricken_ puppy eyes, which made it difficult to be mad in the first place but even more difficult to stay that way.

“It’s fine,” she says, before he can apologize and before she notices he wasn’t trying to. “I’m just. Clumsy.”

Still nothing.

“Okay,” she finally says. “Good talk. I’ll just...bye.”

And she thinks that will be it. But then the funniest thing happens.

She turns to go—

And he’s standing in front of her again.

Weird. Purchas has seen enough weird shit to last her a lifetime, and she’s not much interested these days in seeing more, so she says, “Excuse me, could you please move?”

He doesn’t. Somewhere to her left, she can hear someone snickering. She pays it no mind. Bigger fish to fry and all that.

“Look, man, I’m sorry for bumping you—“ though no one had actually been bumped— “But I’d really like to get through, so can you—?”

“Um, excuse me? Miss?” The kindly woman running the stand waves to get her attention. “Who are you talking to?”

Huh.

Now see, some poor, unexperienced soul than Purchas might do something like exclaim, _What do you mean who am I talking to, he’s right here, can’t you see him?_ And then go through the seven stages of grief while trying to figure out who—or rather what—their not-really-a-conversational partner is. But Purchas is not that poor, unexperienced soul, and so she just sighs, reaches forward, and sticks her finger in the guy's chest.

He mouths something, Purchas thinks it might be, _Hey!_ But she doesn’t care. She’s already got the wretchedly familiar chill down her spine and the humdrum opening abyss in her stomach. It’s boring by now, really. The guy—the soul—looks pretty affronted at her audacity to just invade his space, but no matter.

Bigger fish to fry, and all that.

Purchas sighs, “No one, ma’am, sorry for the disturbance.”

She looks back at the guy and tilts her head— _Coming?_ And this time he’s not blocking her when she turns away. Typical. Souls are always so bothersome when they’re trying to get your attention, but the second they have it they go all flaky on you.

She doesn’t check behind her to make sure he's following as she navigates her way through the farmers’ market and back up to her apartment building—he is. They all do, every distant aunt and cousin and long lost, great-uncle, three times removed.

But it’s been awhile since Purchas has had a soul hitching along at their invisible, slogging pace. The last one had been a little girl, hardly older than 11. Purchas never found out if that was simply her preferred form, or if she really had died that young. Best not to think about it, really, or else she’ll go all misty and strange and she’ll never get the job done.

She leads the soul up a cramped little stairway—the elevator’s broken again—and into her shoebox apartment. It’s not much to look at, but then, no Brooklyn one-room is. Purchas’s is no exception, despite the barrage of ‘bigger on the inside’ spells she’s cast on it. It’s a corner unit, though, and full of stubborn, buttery sunlight even when the rest of New York is covered in grey. She’s got her art stuff in the corner, and a good dozen half-dry, dreamy canvases leaning against the walls and the couch and anything else that reaches higher than half a foot, including the shoe rack. The soul gets caught up with staring at one she’d painted of a cottage with a colorful patio. Purchas sidles off into the kitchenette in the meantime.

It’s a shit deal, trying to get a soul to talk. Usually they’re pretty freshly dead and still reeling from it, hence why they take a day to meander around the world of the living with Purchas. She’s still got her system in place: a small, shallow metal dish, a knife, and a notebook are all stacked neatly together in a drawer. It’s been untouched for almost a year now, but no matter. Purchas has had this procedure down pat since she was 14 years old. She gets the materials, a rocks glass full of ice, and the bottle of nice bourbon Henry’d gifted her when she turned 18, nearly three years ago. He’d promised her an even nicer one if she made it to twenty-one. It was one of those things that had been jokingly-not-jokingly motivating when things got dark— _Keep going, and Henry will buy you a bottle of Jefferson’s._

Not the point.

The point is that this is the shittiest part of the deal. Purchas takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and slices the back of her arm open.

The thing about souls, the toughest thing, really, is that they can’t speak aboveground. It's something about their composition. Apparently they do fine the the Underworld, but getting them to communicate—to _connect_ up top—needs a sacrifice.

Needs blood.

Purchas whispers something—Ancient Greek, so worn along the grooves of her mouth that she's half-forgotten its' meaning—and bleeds into the bowl. The soul hasn’t noticed yet. He’s still staring at the painting.

Once the blood reaches the line she’d precariously etched into the side of the dish, she tuts out a quick healing spell, tips it over into the glass, and follows it with the bourbon. Blood and spirits. There’s an irony there, she’s sure. If she’d had more time, she might have mixed it up with lavender bitters and simple syrup, made the whole thing a bit easier to swallow down, but—well, Purchas is big enough to admit when she’s out of practice. She tops the bloody cocktail off with a short metal straw (criminal, but necessary), and walks over to the spirit.

“Drink,” she says, holding the straw up to his downturned mouth. There’s a moment before he tears his gaze away from the painting, where his eyes are all tender and creased and wounded. Then he looks at her, notices the proffered straw, frowns, and mouths, _What the fuck?_

Except that Purchas doesn’t think he intended to mouth it.

“Yeah, this’ll help with that. Drink.”

The soul’s brow crease grows deeper—really, he’s got such a _frowny_ face, hasn’t he?—but he leans forward. She can tell the second it starts working. He brightens up and doubles down, polishing toff half of the glass in one long pull, forcibly grabbing it out of Purchas’s hand.

She didn't have to worry about it going down easy after all.

The soul slams the empty glass down on the coffee table.

“Holy shit,” he sighs, big and noisy, then freezes. One sturdy hand comes up to tap at his throat. “Holy shit.”

Purchas doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing.

“Hi,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” His keeps rubbing at his larynx. “What did you—?”

“Blood. In the bourbon. It’s an old animancy trick to commune with present dead.”

The crease deepens again. “Animancy?”

Purchas rolls her eyes and waves his question away. “Not important. The point is, you’re dead. Sorry about that.”

The soul is surprisingly unperturbed.

“Um. Yeah," he says. "I kind of, um. Knew that.”

Oh.

“Oh,” she says. “Odd. Usually they don’t.”

When they do, they’re usually caught up in crying about it. The peaceful souls, the ones that know what’s going on and are alright with it, or, at least, resigned to it, don’t cross paths with Purchas.

“Doesn’t matter,” she shakes her head, finding her footing again. “How can I help you?”

The soul tilts his head. “Help?”

Alright, here we go. Familiar territory.

“Let’s start with a few simple questions," she shifts comfortably into her Dead Counselor mode. "Would you like to sit?”

He does. He keeps shooting her these strange looks as she goes to get her notebook. They get even stranger when she drops on the couch across from his armchair and tucks her hair behind her ears.

“I’m Purchas, by the way,” she starts. The soul doesn’t respond in kind. He’s too busy staring at her toes, tucked up by her knees.

“You’re barefoot,” the soul says. Purchas glances down—so she is. She must have kicked off her sandals when they’d come in.

“Yeah,” she says. “Is that a problem? Wait—“ exasperation and dread mingle unpleasantly in her stomach. “You’re not one of those weirdos with a foot fetish, are you?”

“No!" The soul starts. "No, sorry, just. Shit, okay. Didn’t I just talk to you?”

Purchas stares blankly at him. “I’m sorry?”

The soul just gets more agitated. There's a whole thing with hand-wringing. It's an entire event. “There was an-an office, and you told me to go upstairs? Are you—is this some kind of, like, Library prank or something?”

A chill—a real chill, not an artificially summoned ghost chill—shoots up her spine.

“Did you just say Library?”

The soul falters. “Yeah?”

“So you’re a magician then.”

Oh, this just got so much more interesting. Purchas hasn’t met a magician soul in awhile. Granted, the last one she’d met had tried to do a warming spell and ended up almost burning her mother’s apartment down, but she’d also told the most deliciously naughty jokes, so. Tit for tat.

The soul’s face goes all pinched and confused. “You already _know_ this. We were in your office, and you were talking about, like, passports and stuff, and you gave me this—“ he holds up a golden tube-shaped thingy that Purchas has never seen before in her _life—_ “And then you sent me upstairs to, like, a door or some shit. You said you were sending me to an _expert._ ”

“Wait,” Purchas’s mind is racing, connecting dots faster than she can even begin to register the picture they create. “Are you saying you were _in_ the Underworld?”

 _“Yes,”_ the soul stresses. “So were you. Are we—are we still there?”

“No,” Purchas shakes her head. “We are very much not. And I don’t know who you talked to before, but it definitely wasn’t me.”

The soul sets his jaw. “Prove it,” he says.

Oh.

Purchas bites grimly down on the inside of her cheek.

A loaded fucking request.

“Alright.”

She scribbles out a spell in her notebook, and then slides it toward him. His eyes widen to saucers as he reads, and Purchas can’t help feeling a bit smug.

“This is a truth spell,” he says dumbly. Purchas is sort of inanely proud of herself for not immediately going, _duh._

“Calibrate the circumstances for exactly where we are, as if you were standing six feet belowground,” she tells him.

“These are illegal," he says. His newly corporeal hands are shaking.

“Yup," she pops the 'p.' "Calibrate the circumstances for exactly where we are, as if you were standing six feet belowground.”

Something they’d discovered _after_ the last magician had almost gotten Purchas blamed for arson, was that the circumstances of casting when one was dead were vastly different than when they were alive. While he works, Purchas retrieves the bourbon, the knife, and the dish again.

“What are you doing?” The soul frowns. Really, _so_ frowny.

“Trust me,” Purchas snorts grimly as she mixes the blood and liquor together again. “You’re going to want this when you're done.”

Another thing they’d discovered—casting takes a lot out of you when you’re dead.

Purchas sets the tumbler back on the coffee table, and leans back expectantly.

"Well?" she says.

The soul cranks out the tut—a little forceful, and somehow, bitchy, but obviously practiced. The effects are fairly immediate. It kind of feels like an egg being cracked over her head.

Purchas takes a deep breath, and slides the glass forward. “You should really drink this.”

He does.

“By the way, I never asked, but what’s your name?”

The soul peers frustratedly at her as he wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand.

“Quentin,” he replies. “Quentin Coldwater.”

And Purchas goes cold.

The interesting thing about truth spells is that they’re very dangerous if you fuck them up or cast them on someone unwilling, which people almost always did—hence their illegality. But they don’t _force_ the truth out of someone without a direct question. Which is why Purchas can keep her mouth shut even as _Quentin Coldwater_ runs in complicated circles around her head. Because that’s—

Just perfect, really.

Fuck.

She swallows, and hopes that it doesn’t look as harsh to Quentin as it feels to her. She might not have thought this whole truth spell through.

“Alright Quentin,” she nods. “Fire away.”

His eyes narrow, the cogs in his brain turning around. Purchas knows that look. She's seen it in the damn mirror.

_Fuck._

“Is Purchas your real name?”

“Yes,” she said. Okay, easy.

“Have you and I ever met?”

“No,” Purchas shakes her head confidently. “At least not to my knowledge.”

“Are we in the Underworld?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t send me here?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

Purchas crinkles her nose. “Why would I know that?”

“I don’t know. You look just like her.”

"The person that sent you here?"

Quentin rolls his eyes— _duh._

"Yeah," he says unnecessarily. _Brat._

“So?” Purchas shrugs. “There are seven people in the world that look like you, right? Maybe one of mine is a dead Librarian.”

Quentin falters, unsure for the first time.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mutters. Then he brightens. “What’s Animancy?”

“Soul magic.” Purchas says, then, before he can ask, “It's my Discipline.”

That makes him sit up straight. 

“You go to Brakebills?”

“No,” she almost laughs. “Never.”

Quentin tilts his head curiously. “Why?”

“My mom died there.”

Silence.

Shit. Purchas hadn’t meant to say that. There’s the truth part of the truth spell.

“Adoptive," she amends, "but still. She and the Dean were friends. She went there to deal with a problem and she. Um. She didn't make it."

Quentin’s face does a complicated, sympathetic thing. “Oh. I’m. Um. I’m sorry.”

Purchas wants to say _It’s fine,_ but. Truth spell. So instead she says, “Yeah, it’s fucked to pieces. Henry—er, Dean Fogg—still wants me to go, but I think if I ever went back I’d just end up puking. Besides, they don’t even have my discipline, not really. I’d have to go to, like, conferences and shit.”

“For animancy?”

“Yeah. It’s really rare, kind of like Traveling, but instead of being able to the multiverse, I get to talk to my dead relatives.”

Quentin frowns. “Come again?”

Purchas really wants to pour herself some bourbon, but the only glass available has her blood pooled at the bottom, and she thinks it might be rude to drink straight from the bottle, so she abstains.

“So, animancy is soul magic, right?" She says. Her hands are waving around like they do when she gets like this—all stressed and uncomfortable and preferring to sink into the couch rather than _talk_ to another person. "Which is vague as hell as a discipline, by the way. ‘Cause there’s so much in a soul, and that a soul can do. Like, animus entanglement, right? It’s just a fancy word for soulmates, but animancers can, like, sense those connections between souls if we concentrate. And, like imprints on the soul. Bruises. Big traumas and highlights. We can see the impact that’s made. We can remove and restore Shades more safely and easily than other magicians, which is a weird fucking ability to have, by the way, cause if you're, like, a halfway moral person it's completely useless in the everyday. But even those are all kind of, like, specialized areas. Mostly, we act as these sort of beacons for souls that have trouble passing on.”

“But you said relatives.”

“Yeah. It’s easier for those with a blood connection to find us for some reason. I don’t know." She snorts, remembering suddenly, "They talked about it at the conference. Top ten experts of animancy in the world, and basically what they said was that they knew jack shit about it. It was sort of hilarious.”

Quentin’s mouth twists up. “So, you and I are related?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

He looks at her for a long time, long enough that Purchas starts to feel uncomfortable. Well—more uncomfortable.

“What?” She demands.

“Nothing,” Quentin says. Nice to see he can still lie. “Just. You kind of look like someone I know, now that I think about it.”

Purchas nods. “Cool.”

She doesn’t say, _yeah, I figured I might._ Because that’d be weird. Way too fucking weird.

“Can I ask you something?” She asks.

“Sure,” he replies. “I’m not. Um. I’m not under any truth spell though.”

“Guess I’ll just have to trust you then,” Purchas says. _Duh._

“Right," he shifts and tucks a strand of hair behind his ears. "Alright, um. Go for it.”

Purchas's mouth twists to the side. That's not exactly the response that inspires confidence, but, well, whatever. It's going to make things easier if she knows.

“What exactly happened when you were in the Underworld. I mean, I take it you went.”

“Yeah,” he nods hesitantly. “Is that not normal?”

“No,” Purchas shakes her head. “I’m more like a middle stop from this plane _to_ that one. A one way trip kind of deal. I’ve never had someone come back the other way around.”

At _come back,_ Quentin freezes.

“It’s a long story,” he says.

“Start from the beginning.”

Quentin does.

It's a _long_ fucking story.

By the time he’s finished, the sky outside has faded from buttery sunlight to a purply dusk, and Purchas has gotten up and grabbed herself a glass of bourbon, kicked back on the couch, and said, “Shit,” at least three different times.

“And then you ended up here?” She asks.

“And then I ended up here.”

“Okay,” she nods. Her brain is either on the fritz or it's working faster than Purchas can actually keep up with. But it's doing something with Quentin's story, and it sort of feels like it might be giving her an answer.

“Okay," she says again. "Well. I think I might know what’s going on.”

Quentin looks up, hopeful. “You do?”

“Yeah. But look, if I'm right, and I'm the expert my evil twin—"

"She wasn't evil."

"—my evil twin was talking about, then this is going to take…awhile. And a lot of, like, effort. And help. It’s a project, Quentin, I want you to realize that. You’re definitely going to be on this plane, like this, for a really long time.”

Quentin shifts. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know," Purchas says, because honestly she doesn't, weakening truth spell aside. "I don’t know what you're allowed to do. I don’t know if you can eat. I don’t know how often you’re going to need blood to stay, you know, corporeal and talking. The longest I’ve ever had a soul stay with me was half a day. Usually whatever unfinished business or counseling someone needs is done by then. No one’s ever spent the night. I don’t even know if you can sleep.”

He looks a little pale. Maybe he needs more blood? Or maybe he’s just nervous at the prospect of weeks, possibly months, worth of preparation and research, all without being able to sleep a wink. It sounds like shit. Purchas can say for certain that it is shit, even when you _can_ sleep in between.

“But-then I can come back,” Quentin says eagerly. “Right? If we—if it works. I can come back?”

Purchas lets her eyes slide shut. “If you want to.”

Because that’s the key, isn’t it? He’ll have to want it, in the end. Not just now, but later. The later is the tricky part.

“I do,” he promises.

“Then yeah," she says. "You can come back. But it’s complicated, Q. There are—it’s complicated. Difficult.”

“Can you at least tell me what it is?”

Purchas sighs. He’s not going to be deterred. But that’s good. Good that he has that determination, that will to live, or at least to not die. Purchas could use some of that. So she tips her head back on the couch, and takes a deep breath.

“So," she starts. "You know Orpheus and Eurydice?”


End file.
